


the snake oil of your love

by elithewho



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cunnilingus, F/M, Hate Sex, Pseudo-Incest, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Relationships, trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:15:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22866178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elithewho/pseuds/elithewho
Summary: The whole ordeal had taught him one thing: he did have a single moral after all. He wouldn’t fuck Galen Erso’s kid.AU where Krennic raises Jyn and in the process, makes and breaks his single, solitary moral.
Relationships: Jyn Erso/Orson Krennic
Comments: 16
Kudos: 56





	the snake oil of your love

**Author's Note:**

> ty as always to my sun and stars, morgan :3 for encouraging me in all ways to write trash :3
> 
> title is from "the hand that held me down" by two gallants.

Jyn returned when she was twenty-three. More truthfully, she was returned to him, with the proverbial kicking and screaming, like a lost dog. One that bit him if he went for pats. Krennic had actually forgotten he’d put out the order, eight years ago now, to have her brought directly to him should she fall into Imperial hands. One of those orders shouted in the heat of a volcanic rage. So easy to give, slightly harder to keep track of once the rage subsided. 

She was different now, older, grimmer. More like her father, which only made Krennic tenser. Still in her tomboyish phase, if it was a phase at all. Combat boots and a dirty face, like she’d been scuffling. 

“Grievous bodily harm, public drunkenness,” the officer still holding her tight by the shoulder rattled off. 

Jyn’s lip stood out in an obstinate pout. At least that hadn’t changed. 

“Bodily harm?” 

“Glassed a cantina patron.” 

“Oh? Hmm.” Krennic had half a mind to throw her back in lockup, let her think about what she did. But the glint of ferocity in her eye reminded him too much of Galen. He waved a hand and the officer removed her manacles. She looked at him with nothing short of hate. 

“Hi, Uncle,” she said, as though the word were a nasty slur. 

“Go to your room,” he sneered, as though she were still a child. 

Easier commanded than done. Maybe he should have left the manacles, but it wasn’t very guardian-like. Not likely to be in any parenting books, but then very little in their relationship was. 

Jyn only called him _Uncle_ when she wanted to be mean. She’d been given to him as a child, both her parents dead. Lyra and Galen (dear, darling, stupid Galen) blown to smithereens and who did that man think to entrust his precious child to? Orson Krennic? He must have written his will when he was drunk. 

He’d never actually seen the child before she was dumped on his doorstep, was never able to remember her name or even gender. It was always an abstract obstacle in his mind, Galen’s stupidest blunder–actually marrying and having a child with someone, as if that’s a thing people should be allowed to do. She was certainly real when he took possession of her. Flesh and blood, a little girl frown and dirty pigtails, a scraped knee. He should have tossed her off to an orphanage. Orson Krennic did not raise children. Galen’s ghost had other ideas, however, haunting him in that little girl’s angry stare, Galen’s warm brown eyes diluted with moss green. A moment of supreme weakness. 

Not that he did much in the way of child-rearing. A succession of nannies looked after her day-to-day needs, the feeding and clothing. Bedtime stories and other such nonsense. Tutors for her education. It would be a terrible embarrassment to produce a stupid, ugly child now that he was tasked with raising one. She turned out to be neither, to his relief, though she insisted on taking after Lyra in her looks more than Galen. Krennic’s opinion on that would shift daily, veering from resenting her for not being a copy of her father to being bitterly glad for it. 

The tantrums started early and persisted into her teenage years. Not like Galen at all, who was even-keeled and controlled to a fault. Jyn was wild, furious, angry at everything–especially Krennic. She called him Uncle Orson, always sneering, always spitting it out. She had nannies to run to when she cried, which he was grateful for, but she always came to him when she wanted to scream. 

_“I hate you!”_ shrieked at the top of her lungs became her primary mode of communication and he stopped bothering to scold her. He had tried imposing punishments, grounding her for skipping lessons or talking back, but it was no use. He had been the same way. Not that he tried to think about that. That perhaps she was inheriting her rage from him. 

At thirteen she was sneaking out at night. Going to clubs, cantinas. Experimenting with boys, girls, ambiguously gendered aliens for all he knew. It had shocked him at first to think of it. She still looked like a baby to him. 

“She was out _all night,_ ” her exasperated nanny, what’s-her-name, moaned to him. He could never keep track of their names. Jyn had started driving them away at age ten. Said child appeared to him in the corner of his vision and he was forced to consider her. 

“Whatever,” she sneered, pout in full effect. “I did all my homework.” 

She was wearing eye makeup. Or had been, five or six hours ago when she disappeared into the night. It was running down her face now, glitter caked into premature dark circles. 

“You look ridiculous,” he told her as what’s-her-name buried her face in her hands in overdramatic despair. Jyn stomped off. 

One night she came to his office before her nightly sojourn. At least that’s what he thought she was up to. Usually she only graced him with her presence in the morning, looking disheveled and crumpled up like a discarded party dress. Her freshly-applied look wasn’t much better. Hair tousled self-consciously, makeup garish. She wore a strappy, plunge-neck jumpsuit. Something a burlesque Twi’lek might wear to perform. It looked like a costume on her. Too big on the chest, baggy on the hips. A little girl playing dress up. 

“Yes?” he muttered, annoyed. It was late, he was tired. Already into his third tumbler of vintage Abrax. 

“Aren’t you going to tell me to get back to my room and study?” she said sullenly and Krennic snorted. 

“No,” he said shortly. Was he meant to care if she went out at all hours and got fingered by some flyboy in a club? He wasn’t her father. Not even remotely. 

Still, he looked at her properly then for the first time in a while, doing some mental math. She was fifteen, he had realized with a start. He was doing the same thing at her age: hitting the clubs every night, hooking up with boys, girls, whoever would have him. Meeting Galen for the first time, wishing he weren’t such a stick in the mud. He had felt old, mature, mostly a man already. In actuality, he must have looked like this girl before him, with her babyish cheeks and an awkward gangle to her legs. Sad. 

“Uncle,” she whined, and he threw down his flimsi in frustration. 

“What? What do you want? You can’t have more credits.” She was abusing her very generous allowance as it was. 

“Don’t you like my outfit?” She popped out a hip and he turned in his chair to examine her more fully and think up a suitably cutting remark. 

But turning to her was a mistake because then she was sliding into his lap. She’d never sat on his lap in her life. 

“What are you doing?” he said, appalled, as she wound small hands around his neck. 

“Don’t you like it?” she purred, and Krennic actually laughed in earnest. His nose itched from her sickly-sweet perfume, and he pushed her off his lap none too gently. 

“No,” he said truthfully. She had never seemed less like either of her parents. “You look like a child prostitute.” 

Her wrathful expression was to be expected. Had she really come in there planning on seducing him? When did she dream that up? The whole ordeal had taught him one thing: he did have a single moral after all. He wouldn’t fuck Galen Erso’s kid. 

Jyn was gone not long after that night. He had to have seen it coming, he’d tell himself later, but still, he was furious. Unreasonably so to find her drawers emptied, holobooks and teen paraphernalia strewn about her room with the vestiges of her closet. Gone to who-knows-where. It was probably Galen’s ghost tickling him, frowning at him in despair and disappointment for raising his child so wretchedly, that made him trash his office and send troopers on her tail to drag her home by the ear. But she was more elusive than expected. That was her father in her. 

He'd expected the worst for her, imagined that they’d find her body floating in the mud of some backwater planet or that she’d up and join the rebellion like some fool. Instead, she was here, being marched off to her old room, long since scourged of her childhood imprint and turned into a never-used guest room. 

How strange to see her all grown and adult-like. No more playing dress up, it seemed. 

Krennic let her stew in there all night, only allowing his cook to bring her a small meal and some water. No reason to have her suffer too much, but he wasn’t in the mood to deal with her. For some reason, the thought made him incandescent with rage. Seeing her again, being forced to put up with her after all these years. Why couldn’t the past just die? He took it out on some underlings, made one or two of them cry. Then took to punishing his office. Broke a few glasses, snapped a few holos, the usual. 

It wasn’t until dinner time the next night that he let her out. She’d been in the refresher and didn’t look so dirty anymore. Hair in a simple braid, wearing a loose top and her tattered cargo pants, like she wasn’t trying to impress him in the slightest. Well la-dee-da. See if he cared. 

Krennic took his place at the head of the table with a dramatic swoop of his cape. Jyn eyed him warily. He thought absently that she had grown into a lovely young woman. Or she would be, with an attitude change and a bit of sprucing up. He hated to see unkempt clothes, not when she had access to nice things. 

“Don’t look so grim,” he told her and she rolled her eyes. Adult- _like._ “This is for your own good.” 

“I’m not a child,” she huffed and he laughed heartily. 

“Then don’t act like one! Glassing a fellow patron... such violence. I raised you better.” 

“Please. You didn’t raise me at all. Nannies did.” 

A whole army of them, Krennic thought. No wonder she was so warlike. “Don’t be cross. This is better than whatever hovel you were likely living in.” 

Their dinner arrived, born on gleaming plates. Jyn’s eyes lit up despite herself. She must have been hungrier than he thought. 

“Ever heard the expression gilded cage?” she said lightly, stuffing food–unladylike–in her mouth. “I was doing fine on my own. Why do you even care what happens to me?” 

Krennic dabbed the corner of his lips delicately before he answered just as Jyn swiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. “I made a promise to your parents.” When Jyn snorted, he frowned. “You don’t believe me?” 

“My dad just made you feel guilty. Had it been up to Mom, I wouldn’t have been allowed near you.” 

Krennic frowned deeper, mostly because he knew she was right. He never made any promises to Galen. The trap had been set without his knowledge. 

It turned his stomach sour and he picked at his meal, watching her devour hers like he’d been starving her on purpose. Dessert arrived and she inhaled it like air. 

“Truly, you must be miserable here,” he drawled sarcastically and Jyn threw her utensils down on her empty plate, popping up without a proper dismissal. She used to get a thwack to the knuckles for such impertinence as a child. Administered by the nanny, of course. 

“Jyn,” he bit out, rising to his full height, hoping to tower over her. She was grown up, but not much taller than when she was fifteen. 

“What is it, _Uncle?_ ” she spat at him, whirling around. 

“You’re still a brat, I see. Ridiculous. This is my house...” 

“I’m not one of your little groveling stormtroopers, _Director._ ” 

“Evidently. You _willful_ child. Petulant, spiteful girl. Your father would be ashamed.” 

Her hand flew up to slap him and he grabbed her wrist. She tried to wrestle free, teeth clenched, but he held strong. He must have been hurting her, but she didn’t flinch. " _I hate you.”_

How nostalgic. “So you’ve said. You’re free to hate me all you like.” 

Close, like this, he could see the brown in her eyes. Warm like freshly-tilled earth. He used to watch Galen’s eyes for a spark of amusement as he tried to distract him, drag him out to his nightly carousing. Jyn’s eyes were all cold fury now, and that was familiar too. Galen’s calm, measured rage. 

The man's ghost, closer than ever, made his grip go slack and Jyn wiggled free. She slapped him properly then and it wasn’t a weak, girlish pat either. His cheek stung and he grabbed her by the hair on instinct, rage making him snarl. But Galen’s daughter looked more like him than ever and he couldn’t do it, couldn’t throttle her the way he had half a mind to, and she twisted free. Stalked off to her gilded cage, leaving him still smarting and seeing red. 

His poor office had never seen such abuse. If only he had an underling to strangle, but alas. Hours later he still sat in a snowstorm of torn books and scattered flimsi, bottle of whiskey in hand. He’d discarded his cloak somewhere by the door, uniform unbuttoned to accommodate his earlier tantrum. 

Krennic had been eighteen when he tried to kiss his friend. Forcefully, without preamble. Unable to contain his rush of lust and uncomfortably tender feelings any longer. But Galen had pushed him back, not laughing, not angry, but... pitying. An appalling outcome. Young Orson had never been rejected in his life. And out of all his conquests, all his nightly hookups, Galen had been the one he wanted most. The one he’d never have. Galen belonged to Lyra, and then to Lyra and Jyn, and then... the grave. 

More booze. Krennic hated to dwell on such unpleasant memories. On anything that made him feel this way, soft and vulnerable and pathetic. 

Jyn appeared at his door, the living embodiment of her father and the man’s rejection of him. Why had he not locked her out? Had she no sense of self-preservation? 

“Get out,” he bit out through clenched teeth. 

But she stood firm, hands on her hips. “I need to know your plans for me.” 

“I have no plans.” 

“Bullshit. You're full of schemes. You never don’t have schemes.” 

He stood up, advanced on her. She grabbed at the bottle still dangling from his grip and took a swig. 

“I’ll keep you locked up in your room until you learn how to be a real human,” he said, but much of his active malice had dissipated and he felt drained. Drained and properly drunk. 

Jyn cocked her head, smirking. “That didn’t work when I was fifteen either.” She waltzed further into his office like she hadn’t been gone for nearly a decade and plopped down on the couch, taking another long swig of whiskey. Krennic snatched the bottle from her hands and shut it back in his liquor cabinet. Enough of all that. 

“Why did you glass that man?” 

“He was looking at me funny.” 

He turned back to her, still unsure if she was being serious. “Cantina brawls are so crass,” he sniffed. 

“I was never a lady, was I? Even when you tried to make me one.” 

“No, but I thought you’d be more of a tart, not a brawler.” 

Jyn shrugged, not looking insulted at all. “Uncle,” she said, smile playing on her lips as she rose. Advanced on him with a swagger in her hips. 

The last time they’d been here, she’d been a child, barely out of pigtails. An infant. Practically fetal. Maybe it was the shock of seeing her after all this time, that mental image of her shattered, this sudden, womanly confidence that she walked with. He didn’t move when she pressed herself against him. 

“Stop, you silly girl,” he said softly, hands on her shoulders. But he didn’t move. 

And there was nothing girlish about the way she plucked open his uniform, dragging down his lapel and bearing his undershirt to her. It must have been the liquor addling his brain that he didn’t stop her. He was supposed to that have one, solitary moral. The one where he didn’t fuck Galen Erso’s kid. But he hadn’t wanted to before. She wasn’t really a kid anymore. 

Krennic has never been one for self-disgust. Or prudishness. Still, it made an uncomfortably twisted _something_ slither through his insides as he brushed the hair off her neck, bent to kiss it. She tasted like soap, and he opened his mouth, sucking gently. Jyn moved against him, pushing closer. His hands dropped to her waist, the hem of her exceptionally baggy shirt. 

Blame it on his neglected libido. So few opportunities to get laid with no strings attached while he was so busy. Unless he wanted to fuck underlings and who was he, Tarkin? No, he’d been forced to be celibate for too long. Jyn took off her shirt and his stupid lizard brain lit up like a city being bombed. 

Cupping her ass, he lifted her up, swung her around onto his desk, scattering the debris from his earlier rampage. It was impossible to think of her as the child who had clumsily tried to seduce him. Still too young for him by far, but damn if he wasn’t a sick, fucked-up pervert already simply by virtue of not sending her away again. Her breasts were flushed pink already, warm and soft as he sucked a nipple in his mouth, bit down. Jyn yelped, pulling at his hair. He nipped at the other one as she squeezed him with her thighs. 

“Oh, Uncle Orson,” she moaned and he pulled his head up. She was laughing at him. He tugged roughly at her pants. 

The very fact that he shouldn’t be doing this at all made him want to do it more. Take that, Galen, he thought savagely, feeling Jyn all hot and wet through her underwear. She squirmed, rubbing against his hand restlessly; it looked huge against her small frame. He watched her hungrily as she bit her plump lower lip, reaching for the bulge in the front of his trousers. 

He could have been gentler, could've refrained from pushing into her hard enough to make the desk rattle. But he figured she wasn’t there for gentleness, judging by the little breathy moans in his ear as she wrapped steady hands around his neck, arched her back and sucked a love bite onto his exposed neck. 

“Don’t call me Uncle while I'm fucking you,” he snarled through his teeth, after she moaned it against into his neck. Her cunt seemed to grip him harder as she laughed, high and tight. 

“Come on, _Uncle_ , don’t you like it?” She bit his ear for emphasis and he bent over her, flattening her onto the desk to he could fuck her deeper, gripping her behind the knee to forced her leg up, twisting her hips upwards. “Fuck,” she muttered, and he hoped (suddenly, weirdly) that he hadn’t hurt her too much. 

But she was pulling his hair again, pressing his face between her breasts, and though he intended to keep fucking her until they were both exhausted, something in him got the better of him. Something about how she moaned that awful word, _Uncle_ , but with none of the previous theatricality. He came with a shudder, Jyn’s heartbeat wild against his cheek. 

She was pushing him off her in an instant. But they weren’t done, not yet, not if the way she was still clinging onto him was any indication. Her face was red, glowing, hair slipping out of her braid. He lifted her off the desk, deposited her on the couch before he finished undressing. 

Stupid of him to think he could stop at just one fuck. Not when she was arching her eyebrow at him like that. Still, what a shock to feel his joints protest when he got on his knees, parted her legs. She tasted warm, salty, like tears. Her thighs tensed, brushing his stubbled cheek as he sucked her clit. Feeling her squirm against him, her startled moans as she came, was enough to set him off again, surge up from his knees like a man half his age. 

She sat in his lap this time, he slumped on the couch and gripping her hips as she bounced atop him. He enjoyed the hot, savage way she fucked him, the blotchy marks he’d left on her breasts with his mouth. She came again, his thumb rubbing over her clit, her hand pressing softly on his windpipe. He wasn’t far behind. 

Hours later, he woke to feel her wriggling next to him in bed. He must have been wracked with madness to bring her here, carry her, all tired and fucked out, to his _bed._ The place where he slept. He didn’t let his fucks sleep with him, it wasn’t done. But he’d fallen asleep before thinking better of it and now she was wiggling like a fish beside him, disturbing his slumber. 

“Lie _still_ , girl,” he snarled, trying to push her back to a safer distance. Was she trying to _cuddle_ with him? Had she gone soft in the head? 

“I’m cold,” Jyn mumbled, voice muffled by the blankets she pulled around them, still trying to nestle into his side. “Uncle, let me.” 

“No,” he grunted, not nearly as disgusted by her calling him Uncle as he should have been. 

Her laugh was low, rumbling against his ribs as small hands snaked around his middle. 

“I thought you hated me,” Krennic muttered, no less annoyed at being awoken. 

“I do,” she sighed sleepily. 

“Good.” 

Hate was exactly what she should be feeling, he thought with dulled anger, wrapping a hand around her, cupping her slight shoulder. Really, this was Galen’s fault, for entrusting his daughter with such a vile man as Orson Krennic. He should have smiled at the thought, but he could only scowl into the dark and wonder if he was blaming the wrong person. If maybe Jyn had inherited his plotting nature along with his temper. 

He shivered. 


End file.
